Fatherless

Daniel Clayton Hill (1921-1981)
my spirit don't speak english

My grandfather Joseph Hill died when my father, Daniel Clayton Hill was only two years old. Grandpa Joe was an iron-worker like my father and two brothers. He died while working on the Whirlpool Bridge that connects Niagara Falls, NY to Niagara Falls, Ontario on November 21, 1923 he was only 29 years old at the time. The story I have heard from a few different sources is that the bridge was nearly completed or all completed, depending on who was telling the story. He somehow slipped on the iron and fell to his death in the Niagara Gorge, leaving behind my grandmother Elizabeth Pearl (Printup), and four children Birdie, Gordan Howard, James, and my father Daniel Clayton.


I do not know much about my father and feel emptiness inside me because of the deficient of basic information about who he was as a man. I know that as a child or young adult he was sent to the Thomas Indian School which was located on the Cattaraugus Indian Reservation. How long he stayed there or how old he was when he was sent there is something I have no knowledge about. The impact of his stay there was apparent in his life evidenced by his reluctance to speak his native language of Tuscarora. He rarely ever spoke his first language unless he was drunk, the reduction of his inhibitions by the alcohol allowing him to overcome the repression of his language forced upon him during his youth. I know he loved to read as evidenced by a book, magazine, or newspaper he would either be reading or have tucked under his arm whenever he was home.

He served time in the US Army in the 182nd Airborne Division as a paratrooper. Again I do not know much about the time he served. I do have a picture of him riding in the back of a horse drawn coach in his uniform with another unidentified soldier; I am told this picture was taken in France after it was liberated. He never spoke of his time in the boarding school or his time spent in the Army; not to me anyway, the youngest of his nine daughters. My brothers may have heard more about his exploits as they spent more time with him out in his garage then us girls. If he did speak about his past these stories were never shared with me.

I assumed that these were not good times for him and that perhaps he never truly dealt with all the traumas that may have been visited upon him either during his early formative years, or while at the boarding school, or during his stint in the service during war time.

My father could be called a functional alcoholic, he drank nearly everyday yet he always made it to work. If you asked anyone about him they would tell you he was funny, a good man, hardworking, generous, intelligent, a good mechanic, and life of the party so it seemed. But there was another side to him as well and it wasn’t always pretty, he could be very violent and very mean to his family. Many nights I can recall him coming home late or in the early morning hours and inflicting mayhem on our household. He would wake us up and if the dishes weren’t done, or the house not tidy enough he would take off his belt and beat whoever he felt was responsible for the transgression. Sometimes it was my mother, sometimes it was one of us. Never me, as the youngest I had never felt the sting of his belt or the slap of his hand. My older siblings all have at one time or another, some more than others.

Recently I spoke with my father’s first cousin; she is 84 years old and the daughter of my father’s uncle Clement. She reminisced about when her father died; he was my grandfather’s brother, and she stated that her dad had tried to be a father figure to my dad, that he had compassion for my dada and he had always made an effort to be there for his nephew who was fatherless so young. My dad was about 16 years old when his uncle Clement passed. In those days they brought the body home and had a wake during which they sat up day and night singing and eulogizing the deceased, and then they had the burial. She stated that my father, Daniel never left the side of his uncle’s Cement’s casket; he sat there day and night. She also declared that my father was a poet and a great storyteller; he had often visited at their home and would recite his poetry for his uncle and regale them with his stories. This loss of another important and loved man in his life was hard on him she said.

When she told me about my father being a poet it touched my heart. I only wish I could have read or heard some of his poetry. My son writes beautiful poetry as well and now I know what bloodline his talent ran through. My son, like my father lost his father an early age; not to death but as a result of divorce. He too had no male role model in his life for the formative years. He too knew the pain of loss, of  days and nights spent hoping to see his father again. Below is a poem that my son wrote at the tender age of 17 and it speaks to the loss of language, culture and love that we have all experienced as a direct result of the boarding schools legacy.

Carlisle

Little Indian boy on a train to a school
So far far away from the land of his life’s blood.
I am with him and I am him.
As are countless others.

On a train to a school filled with notions of civilization
And the sorrows of many nations.
With secret meetings in closets
So we could talk that tongue that is our life’s blood.

So we could hold that dream in our hands of growing up free.
But it was all overshadowed by civilization
And brutal beatings and things we couldn’t understand.

Grandpa never spoke those life-giving words ever again.
Nor have I.

-Jordan Welby Styres ®2000

Death comes calling

Why does death bring out the worst in some people and the best in others?

I’ve seen my share of death, dying, and loss and felt all the corollary emotions and supplementary shocks. It is never easy for family members or friends of the deceased. Some people simply cannot or will not deal with the fact that we are all mortal and that eventually we will all be mort.

It seems that those under twenty-five or so don’t really consider that life is finite. Many at that age have not experienced the loss of paren

ts or siblings, perhaps grandparents but in this mobile society not everyone is as close to grandparents or aunts and uncles as they once were. Families are spread all over the country and don’t see each other daily or even weekly, so to lose someone that is not in your life every single day sometimes diminishes the sense of loss.

My first memory of death was when I was still a child of about four or five. I remember attending the funeral of my aunt’s infant daughter. I remember being lifted up to see her lying in her small white coffin in a beautiful white dress or gown. She was such a beautiful baby with pink cheeks and dark hair. I didn’t understand why she was in there sleeping and not being held close by her mother. At that age I couldn’t begin to understand the pain and loss her mother, my Aunt Caroline “Kayo” was going through. I now know that the baby’s name was Linda Michelle and that her death was related to the incompatibility of the Rh- factor in her and her mother’s blood. After going to the funeral parlor and the completion of the services we all went somewhere to share a meal afterwards, I don’t know if it was at a rented hall or back at my Grandmother Vera’s house. The loss of this beautiful baby was never mentioned again that I can recall. It almost seemed that she never existed except in small flashes of my memory and I am sure contained within her mother’s broken heart.

My next memory of death touching my life was more understood both by my psyche and my heart. I had an Uncle Jimmy Miller who was married to my Aunt Doris Wilamenia forever. Uncle Jimmy had a great sense of humor. My favorite memory of him was from one summer afternoon. I was probably about 13 or 14 years old and we were driving to Waterford, Ontario to perhaps pick strawberries or maybe to visit my Aunt Deloris “Spense” who resided there. I know that Uncle Jimmy was driving and my Grandpa Ty was in the passenger seat. In the back seat was me, my cousins Pauline “Didder”, Rhonda, and Lisa. We were sitting back there whispering about music, boys, and other important stuff and we were laughing loudly with an occasional hysterical scream or some random snorting. Uncle Jimmy turned around and called us a bunch of “gigglers” which brought on another round of hysterics because unbeknownst to him, or perhaps he was well aware of the fact, that was a name my mother often used to refer to male genitalia.

As we got closer to Waterford there were some young men walking along the road. Uncle Jimmy said to us, “Okay you gigglers here are some boys up here, when I get close I’ll beep and you girls wave.” Again we all broke up because it was so funny that we should be waving at boys with Grandpa in the front seat and our Uncle Jimmy as our chauffer. Of course we all hung our heads out the windows waving, screaming, and whistling at those boys. They were astonished at all the clamor and maybe even a bit scared from the looks of their wide-eyed stares with mouths agape they had as the car whizzed past them. More laughter from the gigglers ensued!

The fact that Uncle Jimmy was the chauffer was even more amazing since he had had his right arm amputated. He had been in an auto accident in his younger day and the docs had put his arm back together with pins and plates. Apparently this repair to his arm wasn’t as successful as was originally thought because it lead to some growth of cancerous cells that spread throughout parts of his body. I remember one day I was at school probably in the 8th grade because I was still in the middle school. I was so sick, throwing up and had a fever. I was sent to the nurse’s office and she called my mother. My mother was usually out and about most mornings having coffee and visiting everyone around the reserve, there were no cell phones back then. We were fortunate enough to have had a land line. At any rate on my emergency contact list was my Aunt Doris and Uncle Jimmy. Aunt Doris was working at the Tuscarora School as a cook/cleaner so Uncle Jimmy drove his green Toyota pickup truck to the middle school to fetch me and bring me home. I was never so glad to see him. I remember letting my head lean back against the car seat as I watched in amazement as he turned the steering wheel so deftly with the little ball attached to it. Although the two things I really wanted at that moment was for my mother and to be home and then to be able to lay down in my own bed, Uncle Jimmy was the next best thing in my time of need. He dropped me off and home and then he must have drove around the rez and located my mom because she got home shortly after I did.

Shortly after this incident I remember being in bed and waking up during the night. I heard the “es:ka dot-ee” and was so scared I ran downstairs and jumped in bed between my mother and father. It was a scary sound like someone blowing over the top of a glass milk jug but even worse I knew that it meant that someone I knew was going to die. That night my Uncle Jimmy was gone. I never wanted to hear that sound ever again.

In 1977 I lost my Grandpa Titus “Ty.” Another funeral, it is so hard to remember anything about that day. I don’t remember a thing, almost like I was never there, he was buried on my 17th birthday. It hurt too much, I think I kept my head down the entire time, trying to keep my tears mopped up with hands full of Kleenex. I know there was food after the funeral but again I can’t remember any of it. I know I sat with my sisters with arms around each other we leaned on each other and were there for our own mother at the loss of her father.

All of these deaths and all the ceremony and ritual experiences were positive healing memorials. I don’t recall any nasty words being thrown around or fights breaking out regarding who was or wasn’t in the will, who did or didn’t get what they wanted from the decedent. Everyone shared their best remembrances, the strength and love they received from their loved one who was now gone on to a better place. Some funerals I’ve attended since then have been so difficult and uncomfortable affairs. Not because of the pain and loss the families were suffering but because of the bitterness, sniping, and infighting that was so apparent even without words being heard.

Naptime

Waking up can sometimes be a distressing effort for me. It is not that I not a morning person, for the most part I am. In the morning I usually feel rested and am ready to face a new day and all that it may bring into my life. It is not actually the waking up part that is difficult for me; instead it is the feeling that accompanies the wakefulness.

To wake up after an afternoon nap, whether it is taken at home, during a car, or airplane trip reminds me of the feeling I would get as a child when forced to take a nap, a feeling that perhaps while I was in a state of repose I may have missed something important. As the youngest in my family it frustrated me that all my older siblings were allowed to stay up, or to go outside and play while my younger brother and I were put into a crib, usually together to have our afternoon nap. The curtains were drawn, perhaps a blanket was put up over the window to drown out the light, in an attempt by my eldest brother to fool us into thinking it was night. The bedroom door a piece of plywood cut to fit the opening into my parent’s bedroom, with large metal hinges was secured with an eye and hook lock on the outside. Everyone was told to stay out and not to disturb the babies because they needed to sleep.

I would lie in the crib with my feet sticking through the rails against a wall that was constructed of bare and worn two-by-fours with old boards nailed together in a haphazard manner, sometimes joined together smoothly, and in other places with a one-quarter to one-half inch gap, to give the illusion that it was a finished wall. I can remember the feel of the boards against my feet, while I lay in the crib and I “walked” up and down the wall in an effort to calm myself. My tiny toes fitting easily into the gaps between the boards. I would grind my teeth and hum to myself as my feet caressed the well worn boards. I can remember putting my face against my brother, Ty’s cheek as I continued to hum so the vibrations would soothe him as well as me. I could hear cars and large trucks driving by and I could hear shouts and voices talking outside and in other parts of the house. I longed to be a part of the clamor but instead my baby brother and me, still the baby too, were relegated to the bedroom to nap.

As much as I fought to stay awake to continue to listen to what everyone was saying, trying to imagine what they could be doing while I was stuck with a crying baby, it was impossible. Sleep would over take me once Ty had fallen silent beside me his breath soft and regular against my cheek. Only then would I finally fall asleep with dreams of what could be.

It was then upon waking that a feeling of loss and isolation would overtake me. What had everyone else been doing while I, the baby girl among a houseful of children, slept? Did they get to go to the store, were they able to walk or ride to the school less than a mile away and play at the playground, did they get some kind of a treat that the baby and I missed. That feeling that life had spun on and on like a top, while we slept, that there was something significant that had occurred that I was not privy to, could never hope to be as long as I was the baby made to nap.

I hoped at times that it would be my mother who would came in the room to lift me out of the crib when my napping was over, but invariably it was my oldest brother or oldest sister who had taken on this motherly duty. That in itself, left me feeling bereft, where had my mother gone?

Nicknames

My sister Dolores is three years older than I. Her nickname has been “Bean” for as long as I can remember. Apparently when she was much younger she, for whatever unknown reason, stuck a bean up in her nose and it stayed there for quite awhile. It was only discovered after she began to emit a rather unpleasant aroma and after some searching by my mother and others did they finally realize it Dolores who was so odiferous. My mother was unsuccessful in dislodging the offending bean and finally had to take her to the ER to have the bean surgically removed.

Most Native people from my home reservation of Tuscarora have nicknames. I would be hard pressed at times to be able to retrieve from my memory their given names because for some people I have only known their nicknames. There is even a game that I have played at various bridal or baby showers where you have to match a person’s nickname with their given name. Not an easy feat for younger people who have never even met someone on the list who have since been deceased, they are oblivious to both their given or nicknames.

I think my favorite nickname is “Jook:wha”, or “Jook” if you knew him well. His real name was Victor Johnson and sometimes when my brothers were in full on wrestling mode and one had the other pinned in a full nelson, the pinned then had to say “I love Uncle Vic” in order to be released from the hold. Vic wasn’t our real uncle that was just part of their lore. Vic or “Jook” didn’t drive, maybe he had a license but he never had a car that I can recall. He walked every day to one of the stores just off the reservation for his cigarettes, Pall Mall or Lucky Strikes I think. Back then we didn’t have smoke shops on every corner of the reserve like we do now. So he would have to walk to either “Red and White” on the corner of Garlow and Route 31, which is closed down now; or to “Mr. Thank You” on Upper Mountain Road, which is now called Ms. Thank You, as the proprietor’s daughter has taken over the store. The shaggy dog story of the reserve, or at least some people thought it funny, was to say that they would stop and ask Vic if he needed a ride to which he purportedly would reply “no thanks I’m in a hurry.”

There was a family, who originally lived on “Dog Street” who had a number of brothers long since gone, but every one of them had a nickname, I don’t even know what their real names were and I would have to go out and find someone older than me to ask. They were “Guggins”, “Basket”, “Tootsie”, and “Moh-Moh” all Jacobs’. These brothers were all hard drinking, fun loving men back in their day. Or so it seems that way because they each have various offspring by various women on the reservation, some from their wives, and some not. So I imagine that they all had some great times while they were still with us. Now “Basket” he seems to have cornered the market on partying hearty and he had many sons who followed in his footsteps, and they too had the best nicknames: Esh:ka or Pumpkin (Leonard), Cow (Milton), Bobby Big Head, Greg, Vaughn (Zeke). The majority of these young men all died young in alcohol related car accidents, one was shot to death by his own cousin during a dispute.

Recently I was talking to my sister Tanis on the phone, she lives in California and has been out there for over twenty years. She asked me if I remembered “Whitty-boy” and “Court”, to which I replied, nope I sure enough didn’t. I have heard their names before but have no recollection of either one of them. I know they lived on Upper Mountain Road and I know I could point to the exact spot where I think their old homestead used to be located, now since fallen into such disrepair that it was gone, or perhaps burned to the ground. I am not sure which. There is a field plowed around their old homestead that is overgrown with weeds and has large trees that probably grew in what was their front lawn.

Another way of distinguishing different generations from the next is to add an extension to their name as in “father’s name +boy”. So I assume that Whitty-boy had a father perhaps named Whitty also, or Whitlo or maybe Whitman. My brother Daniel is still Danny-boy even though he recently turned 63. There is my nephew Joe-boy who has to be over 27 now, Sammy-boy turned 50 two years ago. Petey-boy just had a boy of his own who can’t be Petey-boy-boy, so he is Skippy. Sometimes a different type of extension was used for married, or almost married people. When “Basket” used to be married to Patricia she was “Pat-Mike”, my sister-in-law is “Chrissy-Duck” which is my brother Donald’s nickname added to hers. My favorite couple who are now both deceased were  “OJ” and “Jumbo” Wilson. Her real name was Orelle (I think) and his was Dallas. They were beautiful people with beautiful spirits and their offspring continue on in their tradition of giving to their church and helping others who are in need.

This tradition of nicknames is not localized to my reservation only, other reservations have some great ones too. I have seen a guy at Six Nations with his nickname “Jick” embroidered on his hat, “Jick” is usually a nickname for pubic hair. There was also “Luck-Luck” who comes from that reserve as well, you are a “Luck-Luck” if you start clearing off the table before everyone is done eating. You are an “Ella” if you hang around when your elders are talking and try to eavesdrop on their conversation, which is the nickname of a woman from my rez named Cinderella who liked to gossip. There was  a couple named “Half-dead” and “Bone-slivers” and I am glad that I have never set eyes on either of them from the sounds of their nicknames it seems they wouldn’t be a pretty sight.

Our given names define who were are but I also believe that nicknames have a lot of meaning for people. Sometimes it seems that they define not who we are, but rather they define how others see us. My brother Wayne Clair’s nickname was “Sla”, I have no idea why, he is older than me and out of the house before I was born or shortly thereafter. My sister Vera Jane is called “Bela” I think because our siblings couldn’t say Vera. My brother David’s nickname was Crockett, no explanation necessary. My sister Denise is called “Peg” and sadly I think it is based on the fact that she had polio as a baby and has a limp from her many surgeries to correct the growth plate in her one leg that enabled her to walk. My brother Donald was “Duck” as I mentioned before. I never had a nickname and am not sure if that is a blessing or a curse.

Mrs. Mickey's Laundromat

It was a beautiful Saturday morning and I heard my mother yelling up the stairs for me to get up. I reluctantly got out of bed, it was already stifling in my room and I didn't relish the thought of going to the laundromat that morning. Mom told everyone to bring their dirty clothes downstairs and as dutiful, obedient children we all did. The clothes were all dumped unceremoniously onto the middle of the living room floor, we then started sorting them into various piles of whites, colored and darks. When we were all finished with the sorting process we had eleven baskets filled.

The boys then loaded them into the trunk of our mother's extremely large pink Buick Electra with the overflow filling up the backseat. I was not looking forward to an afternoon stuck in a hot and muggy laundromat washing, folding and resorting tons of laundry. This was one hated weekly chore that usually was relegated to me as the youngest girl in my family to carry out. My mother would have a racing form, a newspaper, and a cold bottle of pop while she sat in the comfort area provided and waited for me to completed this assigned task. I never felt slighted or put upon because my elder sisters all had to to this task at one time and now it was my turn, it didn't mean I loved the job just that I knew it was a job that had to be done, especially if i wanted clean clothes to wear.

Mom and I got into the car and she started driving down "Dog Street" which is the nickname for the road we lived on at our Rez. It was Dog Street because of the the inordinate amount of dogs that ran around loose, wild, and free each day, like I yearned to be that summer morning. We headed up towards the city with our destination being Mrs. Mickey's Laundromat on Military Road. A place I abhorred because of Mrs Mickey, she was probably in her late sixties and would invariably have on her short all occasion mini skirt, a tube top, a nappy blonde wig, and bright red lipstick smudged on in the general vicinity of her lips, as she tried mightily to beautify herself. All of her pale and wrinkly skin on display for all the world to see, eewww. Mrs. Mickey would speak so condescendingly to my mom, always with some derogatory comment about "those dirty Indians", or worse yet Mrs. Mickey would say something about someone my mom knew, and she knew everyone from the rez.

Earl who was either Mrs. Mickey's boy toy or perhaps just her maintenance man, was always limping around the periphery. He seemed to enjoyed eyeing all the gitch and assorted foundation wear as I loaded them into the washing machines. He stank of a combination of urine and old cigars. He had a clubfoot, a cauliflower ear and was always chomping on a nasty cigar butt. He had Herman Munster boots with one sole an inch thick and the other at least four inches thick. I would always go and stand next to my mother if he ever approached me and tried to mumble something to me.

On this particular summer morning my mom was not in the mood for any of Mrs. Mickey's prejudicial shit. We got there and I carried in all eleven baskets and started to load up the extra large washers that held two to three loads each. I started up the first few washers and then my mom went to the counter to ask Mrs. Mickey for some change so we could start the rest. She seemed to be taking longer than usual and I started to walk towards her to find out why. Then the yelling started, apparently Mrs. Mickey had accused my mom of using slugs in her washing machines. That did not sit too well with my mother who was never one to filter her thoughts or withhold a smack down from anyone she thought needed one.

My mom reached across the counter with a right hook that would rival any heavy weight boxer's of the day. Mrs. Mickey's nappy wig went flying off her head and the fight was on. My mom threw down the gloves as she proceeded to let Mrs. Mickey have it. I think the worse memory from that day was Mrs. Mickey's in a headlock under my mom's bingo wing as as was being pummeled. Her tube top was down around her waist and her boobs hanging to her knees, with each right hook her whole body shook and the boobs would sway in unison. If only I had a sharp stick to erase that memory from my eyes.

Very shortly the police were on the scene. The final outcome was that we had to leave and my mom was banned from Mrs. Mickey's for life. I remember pulling the clothes out of the machines and the water dripping all over the linoleum floor, and having to haul out the now heavier baskets of soaking wet clothes to the car. We then drove to Pierce and 18th Street to another laundromat and I had to go through the processes in reverse, again. By the time we got home with the laundry all washed, folded and sorted I was exhausted both physically and mentally from all the shenanigans I had witnesses that day. Needless to day, life with my mom was never dull.

Jump around

Summertime was always my most favorite time of the year. No more school, no classes, no teachers, no assignments, no math, no waking up late and hurrying to catch the bus. Nope, any time that went by was dedicated to fun, to play, to run, to jump, to climb trees, or just move slower and be free. No racing the clock, no worries, no projects to do, no more homework for three glorious months.

It was now time to relax and get down to the business of having a great summer filled of fun, and lots of it. When you grow up on a rural Indian reservation there doesn't seem to be, at first glance, any opportunities for fun. There were no nearby movie theatres, round trampolines, roller rinks, swimming pools, games rooms, lasertron, or computers with Halo, World of Warcraft, or even Gameboys. No, back in the old days we had to use our own imaginations and our brains to manufacture fun to get us through the three months allocated to the good times.

Instead of ready made games and toys, we had miles and miles of woods to play in. These woods were filled with creeks, ponds, swamps, bushes, trees, frogs, snakes, and bugs. There was the spring, the ridge, the reservoir, the playground at the school and a whole neighborhood filled with friends, who were for the most part cousins. The brainpower that we all harnessed to find something fun to each day was unfathomable.

Out in the back of our house was my dad's garage. A two-story barn that seemed like a behemoth to me back then. There was a set of stairs on the backside of the barn leading up to a second story, as well as a built in ladder inside the garage that led to a rectangular opening in the floor. Although it would probably be the easiest for anyone to go outside and walk up the stairs to get up into the garage, my preferred method was to climb the ladder and then hoist myself up through the opening. In those days I was a light thinner then i am now so it was easy for me then, though to accomplish this feat it required a large dollop of balance, grit and some fortitude.

During the summer of 1972 someone either got new mattresses in our neighborhood or just had no use for a large stack of mattresses and box springs. How these old mattresses ended up at our house or more specifically directly under the second story landing of the garage/barn is a mystery to me. But someone got the brilliant idea that those mattresses would make a great landing pad if someone were either brave or stupid enough to jump from the landing onto them, perhaps executing a few flips on the way down. There were quite a number of us who intended to do just exactly that. There was a line up every day for a few weeks as all of the kids took turns jumping off the ledge onto the mattresses below. With each new day came even more wonderful feats of aerial acrobatics as we each tried to outdo the other with our rendition of chief acrobat. The mattresses somehow held out for a number of weeks that summer. In between rain storms we had to take a break to let them dry out before we resumed our joyous jumping.

One especially sultry summer day, I stood on the rail of the landing, already mentally rehearsing my double flip and full layout that i was about to perform. In my minds eye I could see myself and thought "I should turn around and jump off backwards." As "they" say we become that which we think about or that thinking, brings about belief, which brings about action , so it was that day. I turned around and faced inwards toward the barn, practiced my jump again mentally, and must have moved ever so slightly before I launched myself into the air and began my flip. I felt/knew it immediately, I wasn't in the right position. I came down hard, really hard on the ground next to the mattresses. Iheard this funny sound like HUMMFFFTT as i hit the ground, not understanding where the noise came from, me as my lungs deflated. As i lay there next to the mattresses, looking up into the clear blue sky, and into the faces of my siblings and cousins astonished faces the only thing that came to mind was "who moved the mattress."

I fought hard to breath, not to catch my breath but to breathe, the wind had been so thoroughly knocked out of me as I smacked the hard packed earth with my little, skinny, wiry 12 year old body. The only thing I was able to do was lay still for a minute or two, but finally I sat up quickly with a large rush of air. Everyone then started to laugh so hard, i think mostly out of relief it seemed because i was not dead or paralyzed. Then again i think it had something to do with that kind of slapstick comedy like the 3 Stooges, when someone gets whacked it's all you can do not to laugh. The comedy of youth.

The mattress jumps did last too much longer after that, not because my mother had heard about my little "accident" but because the coils in the mattress finally started to unravel and stick up though the mattress in random spots. No one wanted to get a coil jabbed in their back or their backside. So that ended that, no more jumping on the bed. It was time to think of some other ways to have fun without hurting ourselves too much.

Sunday go to meeting clothes

"Sunday go to meeting clothes."

I heard these words many times as I was growing up, but never knew the origin of these five words. It all became so much clearer when I heard these same exact words on a documentary.
My mother, Hazel Leona, was a pupil/survivor of the Mohawk Institute in Brantford, Ontario, a place she and others referred to as the “Mush hole.”

In all my life my mother never spoke of her time at the Mush hole, I do not know what brutality she endured while she was there because she kept it locked away hidden inside her. I know that she was a fluent speaker of Mohawk when she first came to stay at the Mush hole, someone she went there with who is still alive recently told my sister this fact. I also know that when she left there she was no longer fluent; she never spoke to me or my siblings in her native language, which was Mohawk. What words or phrases I do know where taught to me by my grandmother, her mother. I do not know why she went there or how long she had to stay, nor what she endured.

The video I watched portrayed life at the Mush hole as a life full of loneliness and pain. My heart ached thinking of her there alone, separated from her own siblings and friends, perhaps locked in a dark room alone. I do know that because of her time there she had on some level a sense of skeptism about all things spiritual or maybe more accurately religious. I never questioned my mother; I usually took what she told me as her truth, for better or for worse.

Growing up she would tell us to get ready in our “Sunday go to meeting clothes” and she would take us to the Tuscarora Mission on my reservation. I had a strong belief in a higher power, God, Jesus, Creator, Lord, Sa dee a gwes oh, or just He who made me. I enjoyed going to church, I felt such peace and comfort there and always a sense of renewal inside myself. This feeling of peace didn’t seem to come to my mother often. Although she took us there to church where my father’s family attended regularly, it seemed to me that she there was sadness within her and sometimes a generalized scoffing or quiet sneering at some things that were preached.

I attributed her unhappiness or disbelief to the fact that her mother, had been an active member of the Seven Day Adventist Church and her father, had been an inactive member of the Anglican Church. As a young child I couldn’t even begin to understand the losses my mother and her family had already encountered and had survived. I only knew that something inside her was missing or locked up so tightly she didn’t know how to access it herself.

My mother was never a huggy kissy kind of a mother to me. I thought that maybe since I was the 9th of 10 children that she had that perhaps she was tired of mothering and nurturing and that she had already expended it on her other offspring that came before me. As I grew up it seemed that we grew even more distant. I looked to my older sisters for comfort and support. My mother wasn’t always there when I needed her, and sometimes I felt that she wasn’t there when she was. I remember a song called “Far away eyes” and it brought to my mind my mother who at times sat at the table with a cigarette in her one hand, a cup of coffee in the other, staring far away as she looked out the window towards the road.

She loved me I knew that, but it seemed sometimes she didn’t know how to or couldn’t show me her feelings for me. She seemed uncomfortable when in the morning I would get up and come to her and hug her or try to sit in her lap. I never understood her awkwardness and thought perhaps she didn’t really love me because of something I had done or maybe because I wasn’t born a son.

It wasn’t until I heard the woman on the film talk about her experience where she was locked in a cold, damp room at the Mush hole where they kept the “Sunday go to meeting clothes,” did I connect my mother’s pain and her past. Her indifference to me was not that she didn’t want to kiss me or hold me but that she had suffered so much in her own youth, separated from her own mother. Made to lose more than just her language and her culture the perhaps she lost her ability to love on some level. Perhaps she even felt unlovable because that is exactly what the administrators and staff at that school wanted her to feel. It seemed to me that she felt that she was less than, not good enough, second class, unworthy of respect, love, compassion and therefore she found it difficult e to love and nurture anyone else, including me.

My mother has been gone from me for over 24 years, and yet there are still mornings when I wake up and wish I could reach for the phone and call her. l long to be able to stand next to her and just lean my head against her arm, to feel her warmth and her strength flow through me.

One leg at a time

As a young girl I can remember always wanting to be one of the “big girls” hanging around the oak kitchen table at my Grandmother’s house at Six Nations in Hagersville, Ontario. This one summer afternoon I remember vividly the smell of cigarettes and coffee as I stood leaning against my mother’s arm as she sat around the table with her mother and sisters. This is the table where they held court and held forth on the important big girl issues at hand. My mother tried to shoo me away as she called me “Ella”, which was a shortened version of Cinderella and the nickname of a woman from our reservation who loved to listen in on all gossip sessions, invited or not.
The conversation I overheard that afternoon has stayed with me for over thirty years and it has continued to puzzle me for most of my adult life. The topic of this day seemed to be focused on my uncle who had “stepped out” on my aunt. There ensued a rather loud and animated discussion; it was very lengthy and escalated as time went on. All my aunts had something they really wanted my other aunts and my mother to hear, their opinions. The information flow went round and round the table as everyone wanted to have their voice heard that day. Then one statement made by my cuckolded aunt was voiced. This statement seemed to be imprinted on my brain all these years and would come back to me at various times and in different situations.
My aunt said, sounding rather resigned, “He is just a man; he puts his pants on one leg at a time” there was more to her statement but that is all I remember. At this the room fell silent, her declaration seemed to let the air out of all their sails. No more advice or additional observations was forthcoming from anyone at the table. Total silence, which was almost shocking after the melee that had preceded the calm. I couldn’t figure out what this declaration meant for the longest time. Did it mean that other people or men in particular, put their pants on in a different way? Did they put them on two legs at a time? Did they jump into them using a different protocol than woman do? Was he special, different, set aside from all other men in the way he got dressed every morning and undressed every night?
As a young girl I had no experiential knowledge to compare her pronouncement to. My life experiences were severely limited and there was nothing enlightening that I could relate this almost offhand comment to.
This morning as I was standing in the shower the events of this summer day came rushing back to me as clear almost as if I was leaning against my mother's arm again, which on some days I long for deeply. My uncle is now gone as is most of my aunties, mother, and gram who all sat around the kitchen table over thirty years ago. My aunt is still alive, a little softer in the jowls, a little longer in the tooth and definitely moving much slower than she did in the early 70’s.
As I got out of the shower and imparted this memory to my husband he repeated “he is just a man” and it was an immediate moment of clarity for me. Now as I near my fiftieth birthday with many years of my own life experiences I can now understand her declaration. It was her way of coming to grips with his infidelity and her own pain; it was also her way of giving him legroom to make a mistake without it ending their relationship or their marriage. All people make mistakes; he was no worse, and no better than anyone else—he too put his pants on one leg at a time—like everyone else.
Many people have asked themselves if they could forgive their partner if they were to find out that they cheated on them. They do survey’s for Cosmopolitan and Glamour and publish statistics of how many men and women are unfaithful in their relationships, how many divorce as a result of their disloyalty. In that moment my auntie had made up her mind, she either had to forgive him or forgo her marriage. My other aunties, my mom, and grandmother had all accepted her decision as evidenced by their tacit agreement. I saw it in their eyes and the miniscule almost invisible nodding of their heads in unison, not understanding then what I was seeing.
They stayed together, my Aunt Pen and Uncle Don and somehow worked through the pain and loss of a broken trust. My Uncle Don passed away over two years ago and Aunt Pen was at his side as he courageously struggled against a cancer that in the end he could not defeat. He was after all, just a man with all his foibles and failures; nevertheless, she loved him and stayed by his side until the end.

Twilight Mania

This last Saturday morning I jumped up and out of bed earlier than I normally do on a weekend because I had heard on the radio that the first 50 cars who get to the Boulevard Mall will win 2 tickets to see the first showing of the new Twilight movie. I am not even sure which one of the series is next but I knew my daughter, Jessie, would want to be there. I am actually jonesing to see it too since I read every book in the series after she finished it. I picked up the first book to see what all the hubbub was about, and I was hooked. So as I was going down the stairs I poked my head into her room and said “hey you want to go to the Boulevard Mall to get free tickets to Twilight from Jack FM.” She opened her eyes, looking a little like a newborn pup with her eyes all puffy and still half closed and said “yeah, let me get ready.”
We were out the door in about 15 minutes and as we were getting into the car she asked “are you sure they’re Twilight tickets” to which I replied “100% sure.” At this point a little doubt was creeping into my head but I was pretty sure I knew what I was talking about. We headed towards Buffalo and along the way I begin to wonder because we were listening to the 92.9 radio station, also known as Jack FM, and they didn’t mention Twilight tickets, instead they were only mentioning Darien Lake tickets, double admission even. Hmmm, I thought I just knew that I had heard about movie tickets on one of the stations I listened to.
Although it is my car, and I make the payment every month on both the car loan and the insurance; it doesn’t guarantee me free access to the radio. When I am alone and driving to and from work I prefer my favorite station, which for now is 92.9. But when the cab light is on and I am driving my kids to and from sports practices or games; to school because they missed the bus; shopping; to breakfast or elsewhere, they somehow become masters of my universe and think nothing of changing my radio to hear what they want to hear. Never mind that they may have an IPod in their paws with earphones dangling out of their ears, they still change my station. It may be right in the middle of my favorite oldies song but it doesn’t matter, their little fingers start pushing buttons.
I think the worst part of my kid’s generation is that they have to have all access to everything all the time. They have the TV on, the computer on, their earphones in and yet they can come walking over to me while I am house cleaning, doing the laundry, reading, or face booking, scrapbooking and say to me “I’m bored.” To which I always reply well you can go out and weed the garden, vacuum the sun porch, hang your nasty lacrosse equipment on the line outside to blow the stink of it,” to which they invariable reply “never mind” and go back to their game of World of Warcraft or whatever else they were doing. Kids these days!
So we arrived at the Boulevard Mall in record time and got in the serpentine line of cars that was already forming in the parking lot. We were about 20th in line so we knew we made it and we’re both as happy as a bird with a French fry. Jessie again asked “are you sure they have Twilight tickets?” well by then I hadn’t heard one word on Jack FM about movie tickets but plenty on Darien lake tickets. I had told her that they probably didn’t want o remind everyone at this late time or they would be inciting a riot, so good thing I wrote it down, somewhere so I could remember. She looked at me doubtfully and said “okay mom.” Well I looked in my rearview and saw the line steadily growing behind me, I opened my door to get out and Jessie said “mom where u going?” her voice sounding like she was so mortified that I would have the nerve to get out of the car. I just said “I’ll be back in a second.” The look on her face was one of consternation, like I was the kid acting out and she was the parent.
I walked nonchalantly to the girl in the green Chevy cobalt behind me in line. She was alone, probably 23-25 years old with her brown hair in a pony tail and a white spaghetti strapped camisole on. I asked her somewhat reluctantly “so this is the line for Twilight tickets right.” She looked at me with a bewildered look on her face and replied, “No, they are giving away tickets for Darien Lake.” I felt like a stooge and then she said “I wish they were tickets for Twilight.” “Me too,” I mumbled as I walked back towards my car. There it was confirmation that I am old, senile and possibly somewhat of a doofus, at least in my daughter’s eyes.
The girl in the cobalt told me she had driven up from Boston, NY and it had taken her almost 45 minutes to get there. I had driven only 15 minutes and although we didn’t get tickets to see the latest release of the vampire chronicles at least we didn’t leave empty handed. We did get a small plastic cup of chocolate ice cream, only one, even though there were two of us, a sticker on our window for Jack FM 98.2 and 4 admission tickets to a fun filled day of Darien Lake. We now have the whole summer 2010 season in which to use them. Not a bad haul for not actually knowing what we were in line for. I only wish I knew where I wrote down what day, time, and place that the other radio station was giving away the movie passes.